We Were There
by lady-ribbon
Summary: WW2 AU. The war across the sea finally reaches the shores of America one fateful Sunday morning. In the midst of rations, hatred, death and suffering that abound from the aftermath, Alfred finds himself struggling to get through the swift changes overturning his life, and his growing feelings for a quiet Japanese boy who longs for better days.
1. Prologue

**A/N - **_This story will feature things such as racism, prejudice, Japanese internment camps, language, war, etc. If that bothers you, you may turn away now, for far too many times in the Hetalia fanfic section on any website, I have seen bashing towards these things in more realistic stories. Criticism is welcomed; flames are not._

Comments are appreciated.

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_Prologue_

_Somewhere in France – October, 1944_

The scorched ground was embedded with the stench of blood and human decay; the smoke of bitter gunfire and grenades stinging his nose and bringing tears to his eyes. His remaining comrades dragged their feet by his side, sooty ghosts of men in ragged uniforms and hollow eyes. They passed through the broken streets, boots soft on the chipped grounds, respectful of the others who would not walk upon them again. Buildings razed to ruins raised their burnt remains to the darkened sky, waiting with crumbling patience for the drops of rain the overcast sky suggested to heal their burning stone and wood.

He walked on, ammunition strapped around him, gun at the ready. Just in case, just in case.

He hadn't thought he could do it. Kill someone. Place a finger on the trigger, aim with cautious desire to take out life and spare his own. Sounded so simple and easy. They're just the enemy after all. Opposing team of sorts. You don't take them out, they'll take you out and win. Win what? Everything.

...So he'd done it.

He said he'd couldn't, wouldn't ever _–no-_ but he had and it had been utterly surreal, like some grotesque mockery of a play. In his turn, he'd cocked the gun, aimed and fired and the soldier _–enemy of course- _had flailed about for the longest second of their lives –his aim, his aim work on it, make it _instantaneous-_ eyes rolling backward in his head, arms grasping futilely, legs tucking under like a puppet with its strings cut off.

The blood had come quickly then, spilling out and flooding that person's shit caked uniform, red, red, red. He'd watched with morbid fascination even as bile rose in his throat and his comrade screamed at him to _duck you fucking bitch _even as his face was blown off, gun falling from his hands pointlessly, body slack.

And all around the play went on, no one taking heed of what just happened. Not like it was anything special or something. You killed someone? Shot their brains out? Someone died? So what. Big fucking deal. Happens all the time here.

You're not new or anything are you?

...Of course both of them died for their respective countries; his comrade and that...Well, the other. And both had a badge of bloody honor to show for it when _they_ –if they- sent his body back home, manged and broken the piss of the earth.

He felt like he was drowning.

Voices called out to him and the remainders of his squad; relief and congratulations heard even as others counted their straggling numbers with tired eyes. No need to mention those who weren't there anymore. Carry on like it is all okay and everyone will be sent the fuck home like nothing has happened. Give them false hope where hope is dead. Chew and spit them out like little toy soldiers.

The footsteps grew nearer and he followed reluctantly, drops of rain beginning to fall from the sky that had seen it all and then some.

He closed his stinging eyes against the numb horror of it all, blackened fingernails blindly scratching against the envelope in his ratty fatigues pocket.

It was a reminder of home and someone he was never to return to.


	2. Delivery

**We Were There**

_Delivery_

_Seattle, Washington – Early November, 1941_

Snow crunched under Alfred's old boots as he eased his way through the quiet woods.

The pale November sun was quickly setting, darkness creeping and growing about the ancient red timber instead. The shadowed branches of the trees reached out like spiders onto the thick snow that covered the ground, and Alfred gripped his lantern firmly; the light cutting a pathway through the trees and easing the shadows of the night away. His hand holding the lantern aloft felt like ice – he'd forgotten his gloves at home again. His other hand was tucked deep into his jacket's pocket, a basket looped around his forearm cutting into the old tan leather.

It was his Pop's -the jacket- given to him as a spare just that October for use outside of school and Church, to give his good navy wool a break. He remembered his Pop's chuckle as he brought it out of the attic for Alfred, a wheezing, infectious laugh that grew on a person, wrapped them up in the moment like a blanket. Alfred had shot up like a weed that year, taller and sturdier than his lanky twin Matthew. Pop had been surprised at his growth, and how well the tan jacket became him; somewhat long in the sleeves and baggy at the shoulders and torso, but fitting rather well on the whole for a fourteen year old boy. He'd grow up big and tall, Pop had said with a thump to the back and a tweak to his glasses. He'd said Matthew had a lot of catching up to do, as the younger twin had outgrown the older. Matthew had grinned at that, and Pop had ruffled his fair hair affectionately with a raspy chuckle.

Alfred recalled their smiles and the laughter as he walked along through the silence running slowly through the wood, thick and heavy as the molasses he carried bottled in the basket resting on his free arm.

His father had sent him out to the Honda family who lived just beyond the woods, in a small house nestled in a little dip valley among the cedars. Word had come earlier that day that the Honda's new baby had taken ill with a cough and Alfred's father, the local preacher of their small Baptist community in Puyallup, had sent two bottles of their homegrown molasses to ease the baby's cough. Alfred didn't doubt the sincerity of his father's gift, but didn't quite think the molasses would cure the sick baby. Still, his father not only as a preacher but just because of the person he was, always tried to help and comfort people with whatever he could. Some members of their town complained under their breaths of the preacher's kindness to those not of his own kind, but he simply brushed their words away as he would flies and took hold of his preaching with deeper fervor.

Alfred was somewhat familiar with Mr. and Mrs. Honda. Mr. Honda ran a hardware and general goods store up in the town and Mrs. Honda was the director of the Sunday School services at Church. Alfred and Matthew, as the sons of the Parish Preacher, helped out with the younger kids at Sunday school, and not one Sunday passed when Mrs. Honda didn't bring them homemade treats from home to nibble on. The Honda's oldest child, a boy a year or so older than Alfred and his brother, played the piano at Church every Sunday at the nine o' clock service but that was where Alfred's knowledge of him pretty much ended.

The valley dipped somewhat underfoot, and Alfred quickened his pace, thoughts returning to the task at hand, and the wretched Grammar homework waiting for him to struggle through at home.

He could make out a dim light shining up ahead, and hastened towards it, bottles clinking against each other in his hurry. The snow was ankle deep and firmly packed down with ice that pushed against the tops of his boots. Alfred ignored the jabs and trumped steadily towards the Honda's house, placing the lantern on the ground when he reached the door, and knocking firmly on it. He ran a cold hand gingerly across his runny and half frozen nose and waited for someone to answer, looking idly at the dim patch to the left of the house where, in the summer time, he knew that the Honda's grew an acre or two of strawberries. The memory of a strawberry cake sent to his father as a little thank you for employing Mrs. Honda as a Sunday school teacher made Alfred's mouth water. He didn't know much about the Honda family outside of Church, but he had to admit the strawberries they grew were his favorite out of all the strawberry farmers in the town.

He stood there growing colder by the moment, until he heard footsteps and the click of a latch. Straightening up and standing with feet spread widely apart as he'd taken to doing only that year when he'd turned fourteen and his height had accelerated to five-foot nine, he blinked behind glasses as a bright light from inside nearly blinded him.

"Alfred! What are you doing here so late, and when it is so dark outside?" Mrs. Honda, tiny, demure and looking very tired, smiled gently as she always did, stepping aside and beckoning him to come in. Alfred remembered to tap the snow from his boots on the ledge and grab the lantern before stepping in, noticing with some swell of pride that Mrs. Honda didn't even come up to his chin anymore like she had only that summer. "Pop sent something for the baby 'cause he heard it was sick". He grinned as he pulled out the two bottles of molasses and his smile widened when he saw Mrs. Honda's lips quirk ever so slightly at the ends.

"That was very kind of him, Alfred. Please tell him we thank him very much." She took the bottles from him and told him to please sit down as he looked half frozen while she went to the kitchen.

"Our baby has had a bit of a rasp; a frog in her throat to put it better. I suppose your father heard about that in town through the grapevine?" She said conversationally as she walked back from the kitchen where something was bubbling on the stove, a tray bearing a steaming mug in her arms along with some ginger snaps.

"Thanks Mrs. Honda." Alfred said gratefully taking the mug of cider in both hands and letting the warmth seep through his cold fingers and the steam brush across lightly his face. "Actually, Mattie –Matthew I mean, heard about it from Mrs. Yamada when he got back from school today. I guess I didn't 'cause after school was over I had a meeting with the local candy store. I saw Mr. Honda on my way out, but he was seemed really busy." Alfred sipped his cider and sighed in contentment as the sweetness warmed him from the inside out. Mrs. Honda's cider beat his dad's whole.

"Mm yes, Fujitaka's been putting in new orders for our hardware store; we're planning to add a backroom to the building, and he's been stocking up on pine boards, as they are far cheaper this time of year. Ever since the Depression, he's become a first rate bargain hunter." She added with a smile that Alfred would have returned had his mouth not been occupied with a ginger snap. "I tell him he need not be so meticulous with his savings, but he insists that you can never tell when things will go wrong. I do not think though, that we'll go through such hard times as those years…" Her eyes took on a faraway look and Alfred washed down his cookie with the last sip of cider.

"Ah..." He shifted somewhat awkwardly in his seat as the conversation quieted. For all his pride in his height and fourteen years, he still felt like a little child when speaking to adults. Despite his shyness, Matthew was far better at carrying on conversations with them; Alfred was better at running errands for them. "Um…The baby is a girl, right?" Alfred asked searching around for a suitable topic, glad about the conveniently available baby.

Mrs. Honda beamed, faraway look vanishing with the appearance of a proud smile. "Oh yes, the first in our family. Well," she added correcting herself, "she's the second child, but our oldest as you know, is a boy. And speaking of our oldest," she added with a frown, "he should be back from piano practice already. I wonder what is taking him so long?"

"Well, the snow's thick out there…" Alfred supplied unhelpfully, hoping that she would not ask him to go see where he was. He didn't know much, if anything about Kiku, her son. He didn't see him around school very much as Kiku was older than him and in a different grade, and their classes and teachers were all different and very rarely, if ever crossed over. Oh, he saw him at Church once a week it was true, his back to the congregation as he meticulously played all the hymns on the piano from the sheets and pages in front of him, but he didn't make much of an impression on Alfred if any. Dimly he recalled a rather small, scrawny teenager with black hair that always fell in his face and a complexion so pale he looked as if he had never seen the sun. Alfred didn't even think he'd ever heard him speak. He blinked his thoughts away, and realized that Mrs. Honda had asked him something.

"Uh, sorry ma'am what did you say?" Sheepishly he rubbed the back of his head as he always did when embarrassed. Mrs. Honda took no notice of his discomfort, but asked with a smile if he would like to see the baby and have some more cider before he went home.

"Okay to the first one and no thanks to the second!" Alfred said placing his empty mug on the table in front of him and stretching up thoroughly warmed as Mrs. Honda went upstairs to bring the baby. While she was upstairs, Alfred's eyes roamed around the unfamiliar room, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans among the contents of old candy wrappers and spare change. The room was small and somewhat faded, but spotlessly clean and very homelike. Although the heating was on, a fire still blazed becomingly in the grate and a fat white cat lounged dreamily in front of it. There were pictures on the mantle, and stepping closer, Alfred saw people clothed in strange garments in them with stern faces and somber features that clashed with the rest of the comforting room. Turning his eyes away, he spotted a radio set and polished upright piano standing on the right of it, books piled neatly on the top, and complex looking sheet music spread about on the board. Alfred couldn't play or read music for nuts, and the only time he could hold a tune was when he whistled. He knew that because when he whistled a song or along to the radio, no one told him to shut up like they did when he attempted to sing.

Footsteps sounded behind him and Alfred turned expecting to see Mrs. Honda with the baby, but all he saw was a damp looking figure entering though the back door in the kitchen in a light grey overcoat and red woolen scarf wound halfway up the face. Dark eyes looked across the room in surprise towards him while glove covered hands already worked to remove the scarf and unbutton the jacket with practiced ease. Without the layers, the figure –it was Kiku Alfred thought absently as he watched him- was almost painfully small and thin in cream sweater and turned up jeans.

_Jeeze,_ Alfred found himself thinking as he looked him up and down_, doesn't he eat anything? He's older than me, but I'm much taller and bigger. Heck, even _Mattie's_ much bigger than this guy. _

He opened his mouth to say something in greeting, but Kiku had already half turned away and was about to go upstairs when Mrs. Honda returned, steps light on the creaky stairs and a pink bundle in her arms.

"Ah, Kiku, there you are. I was beginning to wonder." She smiled at her oldest child and Kiku nodded in reply, hair falling into his face as always.

A voice so soft and quiet that it took Alfred by surprise returned the unspoken question.

"…Practice ran late today. Mr. Baker's first student of the afternoon had been late, so the classes had fallen a little behind in turn. And I had the Thanksgiving Mass to practice for as well. Is Sakura asleep?" Kiku asked as Mrs. Honda brushed his hair away from his face with one hand.

"She's just woken up. Alfred here," she said motioning to him, and Kiku turned around somewhat reluctantly to face their guest, "stopped over to deliver some molasses that Pastor Jones sent to ease the babies cough. Isn't that kind of him, Kiku? And nice of Alfred to bring it along so late, right?" Her voice prompted Kiku to say something polite, but her son ignored the opening and turned his head to the side, bangs shadowing his eyes.

The baby gurgled, shifting in Mrs. Honda's arms and she soothed it gently, rocking it back and forth while she looked sideways, uncomfortably towards her son.

The question hung in the air, wavering and wilting in the awkwardness and Alfred felt himself growing annoyed. Sure, he wasn't the most polite of people himself and his father constantly reprimanded him on that, but this was just ridiculous. He hadn't done anything to Kiku, and wasn't he the one who had had the kindness of heart to walk over a mile in the snow to deliver something for a baby he hadn't even seen before?

Clearing her throat as if that would break the heavy lull that seeped through the room like a poisonous gas, she opened her mouth to say something but Alfred cut across her before she could. He wasn't going to be polite if the favor wasn't returned.

"I'd better go, Mrs. Honda. Pop and Mattie must be wonderin' where I'm at seeing it's pretty late already."

Mrs. Honda must have heard the annoyance in his voice, for she hastily brought the baby – Sakura that is, closer to him for a quick look while Kiku watched from the sidelines, eyes black and cold in his pale face.

Even Sakura turned out to be something of a disappointment as she turned out to be pink, wrinkled and uninteresting like any other newborn, so Alfred found some polite words to say before buttoning up his jacket once more and grabbing the lantern, heading towards the door.

"Thank you again Alfred. Tell your father we appreciate the molasses. I'll see you on Sunday at Sunday School." Mrs. Honda called behind him sounding vaguely upset; but the baby started to sniffle, distracting her. Alfred forced a smile at her, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Kiku already had gone upstairs without saying another word.

Well, damn him then.

He opened the door, nodding goodbye to Mrs. Honda who didn't notice as Sakura's sniffling had turned into outright crying. Shutting the door with a thump behind him, he set his lantern aloft, boots once more finding their way through the snow.

There were no more footsteps to follow, as the new falling snow had erased all marks. Alfred didn't care. He liked the stillness of the valley and the woods at night. Seemingly untouched and unmarred from human markings that spoiled the outlook, the earth was quiet as if in sleep, and he might have been the only person walking upon it.

The lantern flickered ahead dimmed by the moonlight that flooded the land almost as brightly as day. Turning it off, he continued onwards cutting his own way through the trees.

His annoyance eventually faded and Kiku dimmed from memory once more, Alfred breathed in the fresh smell of snow and savored the frosty air that made his face tingle and snap. There were still chores to be done at home, a radio program to catch, and English homework to battle through. Mattie would help him out like always, and later on Pop would come upstairs reminding them to go to sleep in a stern voice, though the effect would be dimmed with the appearance of two cups of mint coca in his hands.

Somewhere far above, an owl hooted, calling out eerily to the far reaches of the night. Unafraid, Alfred marched on in the clean snow with only the moonlight for company.

He didn't need the path marked out before him to know which way led home.

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It would be great if you tell me what you think, as I'd love to hear your comments and criticisms.


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